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A collection of messages
A collection of messages and final thoughts for the Imperial Orcs, from us, those who have relinquished Skarsind Striking Ardith My regard for the Imperial Orcs grew as a storm; it gathered on the horizon before the coming of thunder. It was my first time in Anvil, the first venture of Sigehold to the gathering of nations, and the first winter after the reclamation of Skarsind. On that night, finding our feet, we came around our nation’s fire to meet our fellow Winterborn. Before then, none of us had met orcs that were not the wretched Thule. With our long skirmish campaigns in Skarsind a recent memory, we were wary at the sight of an Imperial Orc about the camp, untrusting of their nature. This orc was Skywise Gralka, or Stormcrow Gralka as she was then. She took our terse comments in stride, and told us of the Imperial Orcs, of their ways. She spoke well, and we were not to be inhospitable, but words alone could not dislodge the distrust etched in our hearts. These were the first clouds of the storm. The next day came the first, distant rumble; a Scop’s competition in the Green Shields tavern. Again it was Gralka who spoke, and for the first time I heard more than scattered rumour of how the Imperial Orcs had fought in Skarsind, the blood they had spilt to reclaim our homeland. The tale, of course, contained a good deal of pointy trees and no small amount of mud. My heart was warmed, but these were still only feats to be heard of, not witnessed. The next day brought the combined armies of the Empire to battle, but first it brought the Imperial Orcs to the Wintermark camp. Together we were marked with the mud of Skarsind, bound by a reminder of our joint sacrifice. My bannerman Henrick had the wisdom not only to have his helm marked, but requested a handprint be planted on the banner of Sigehold itself. That was the second rumble of the storm, a herald of what was to come. I recall the first strike of lightning well. From there it was to Reikos, fighting our way through wretched woodlands to breach a gate and destroy Druj. I found myself in less of a shield wall than a line, forcing the Druj into a ditch to try to break us, trying to keep what I suspect was the entirety of Urizen’s forces on my right flank secure. Even they will stand still if shouted at enough. The moment was not desperate, but the enemy forces swelled and we were skirmishers trying to not sacrifice good ground; pushed back into the trees, we would have struggled. Then came the hammering of feet from my left. The shadows that rose from the smoke, a sheer wall of steel and war cries, and my heart fair lunged from my throat when I saw the charge of orcs. Surely they would sweep into us, surely they would break us - surely, we were all dead. But it was into the ranks of the Druj that they thundered, and I realised these were the Imperial Orcs, come to not flank us, destroy us. They were our friends, our allies, and truly they were glorious to behold. I wager by the time I’d gathered my wits, there were scarce any Druj left to be mopped up. The battle held other tales, tales of other allies and close brushes with death, but those I shall save for future pages. Suffice to say that the day was won, victory was the Empire’s, and I was proud to return to Anvil not just as a citizen, not just as Winterborn, but shoulder to shoulder with the Imperial Orcs. For all those days of the winter gathering, my fellows of the Mark spoke of the Imperial Orcs as our closest friends, all but part of our nation, and finally, then, I understood. After the rejoicing in Wintermark was done, it was not with Highguard or Dawn that Sigehold wanted to celebrate, even though they had taken the field with us. That night brought us only to the camp of the Orcs - but there I fear the specifics of my tale must end, as the deluge of hospitality made my recollection truly hazy. But the storm still thunders, years on, and for that I am deeply glad. Laughing Wulfric Skarsind has been the home of our family for generations. Back to Leodulf the Taker who founded the hall of our fathers. Our blood is in the waters, are bones are in the rock. The hills and the forests are the story of our lineage, the reason we fought and the comfort of our victory. We will be wounded to leave. We will hurt in a way no herb can ease and no skill can end. It is right that we do this, it is fitting, but it is painful. We give you our story so you may know what has come before in this land and we charge you to ensure there are new stories, new deeds, new families and new songs to celebrate the land you too have poured your blood into. In this, we may find comfort. Relnor Welcome to your new home, welcome and live happy and long lives. But tread carefully for you tread on the hopes, the loves, the loss and the past, of my family my friends and my people. The land Skarsind has supported us and I am sure she will support you too if you let her. She can be harsh and she can be unforgiving, but she has beauty that can never be forgotten. Remember us and this moment in history, pass it on as tales and memories, as memories will survive longer than farms, buildings or even swords. They can be eternal if you let them. Liissá Sigeing, Thrice Lost To the Orcs, Enjoy the skies of Skarsind, blue in the summer when the flowers grow, white in the winter when the mountains fill with snow. Live well and love the mountains as I have, live that I will never forget my loss of home. Æthelric Ealdredsson Skarsind has always been a land of stories, where tales of epic deeds are told and shared around a hundred camp fires. In the cold winter nights the halls of thanes are filled with the laughter of men and women who proudly boast of their exploits, and how they locked shields in defence of the Empire and each other. From a certain point of view the land can be seen to express the true heart of those who walk upon its earth and till its fair soil. In short, it has always been a land of heroes. Although the Winterfolk will leave Skarsind with heavy hearts, we do so in the knowledge that we are entrusting it to a people who will instinctively understand and respect the traditions that has allowed it to weather all storms. Skarsind helped make the Winterfolk great. I therefore look forward to seeing what it will do for the valiant citizens of the Imperial Orcs. Edmund Ealdredsson Note: This letter was found amongst Edmund’s possessions after his death. He had known of the Book of Sigehold and doubtlessly wanted to contribute this to this section. Wintermark is of three hearts and I am of the bold Steinr. We are proud, we are loyal and we are relentless in attack and impenetrable in defence. When we love, it is without limitation. When we have cause to hate, we hold nothing back. And if we fall, we die in the knowledge that our brothers and sisters will avenge us and toast our memory. In story and in song, we can never truly die though we might suffer a thousand mortal wounds. The storm can never break us. I will not put my words into the mouth of a wise Kallavesi nor a clever Suaq. Their tales and their glory is for them alone. But I am Steinr and Skarsind was once my home. To live and become one with our land, you must first understand the people who tilled its soils, formed unshakable bonds of loyalty and friendship and spilled their blood to defend it. Know the origins of the Steinr as it is as much inspiration as allegory. To you, the Imperial Orcs who searched for a home for so long, know and understand us as a people. I have no doubt that you will. Out of all the great nations of this Empire, you, the Imperial Orcs, match the people of Wintermark in your love of life, your bonds of loyalty and your passion for a cause. Skarsind is no longer my home but my tears of sorrow are mixed with tears of joy for I know that the land is going to a people who instinctively understand the traditions that forged it and made it great amongst the provinces. Use the land well for it will rewards you a thousand fold. I raise my tankard in salute. Eeva Sigeing Welcome to Skarsind! It's been a long journey, for all of us, I think. I know that leaving my home behind has been difficult, and emotional, but I honestly and sincerely cannot think of any who deserve a home more than the Imperial Orcs. Your people have stood by us time and again, and knowing the love of a home – the love of the way the sunlight touches trees, the smell of firs that follow you even in dreams, the particular taste of winter to the air – I want you also to feel that love. What else is there to say, truly? I have often felt that when words seem too cold and empty, music has filled that void for me. I cannot give you music here, but I can tell you of the music of our land – of your land. When spring is first breaking, walk down to the deepest woods, and close your eyes. There is a symphony to be found there, in the crunch of snow beneath boots, and the rush of wind between the trees, moving as swiftly as thought. The rhythm is found in your heartbeat, the tune in the first songs of newly hatched chicks in nests above. Underneath that, there is a thrum to the land – a life that you cannot quite place, a sound for which there are no words but tastes like life and breath and blood. There is music in our winters, too – in the crackling of fire in a hall, the low murmur of friends and family speaking nearby. The scattered footsteps of children, distant, playing. The clink of plates and tankards as you raise a toast to another night. In summer, I implore you to climb our mountains, to look down as the hawk does upon the lands that you now work and tread. Hear the freedom in their flight, and take a feather if they leave you one. Feather are, for us, discarded thoughts. May we leave you some bright ones. Live and love in a place that is your own. Feel the land speak to you. Learn every rock and river and glen. Your friends always, Eeva of Sigehold.